I looked over my shoulder to see if I could see my travel companions any more. Their heads bobbed up and down on the horizon. The unsheltered field waved over an uneven landscape in the breeze as I thought back to a different time and place where Emily Bronte’s moors would have been a reference that would have made sense to make. There was a farmhouse to the east. Could it have been my Wuthering Heights? The paint was chipping and peeling and piling up along the concrete base of the house and the screen door periodically slammed against the threshold. If anyone lived there, I think they would have put an end to that slamming by now. I figured the house was mostly desolate when I examined the second story windows and noticed that they were broken. A nearby tree’s branches could be seen crossing over the window frame and into the farmhouse itself. Heathcliff was almost certainly dead but I held out hope that he was away on vacation when the world fell apart. I began to walk towards the barn.
The wind whined and whistled through the cracks between the planks which made up the upper two thirds of the barn which was anchored in place by a sturdy stone foundation. The light reflected off of the innumerable metallic surfaces and danced in the air, dazzling my eyes as I scanned the disorganized contents of the barn. In other circumstances I might have enjoyed the play of light and color, but for the time being I had to focus hard on the task at hand: getting us out of here with our supplies.
There were two vehicles among the heaps of farm equipment. The first was a Chrysler New Yorker. I couldn’t determine the exact year, but from the design I supposed it was from the 1980s or ‘90s. I suppose it may have well been from the Middle Ages but maybe the attachment to a time before the Big Mess has helped me in the past. At any rate, the Chrysler was that light brown color that only cars or coffee with too much cream can be. Three of the hubcaps were missing which exposed the rusty bolts binding the wheels to the rest of the car. It still looked like it was in better condition than the tractor next to it. The tractor’s wheels came up over the roof of the car and the areas immediately surrounding the wheels were missing a lot of paint. I suppose if Wuthering Heights ever entered the 20th century this would be Heathcliff’s vehicle of choice. I paused to think about how many generations of Heathcliffs if would take to bridge the gap between me and Emily Bronte. The keys were still in the tractor. The engine engaged me with the kind of deep rumble that one might expect from someone who has been sleeping for a long time. I examined the controls and tried to figure out how I might get it out of here and back towards my companions. The fuel gauge was hovering over the little red E. I decided to risk running out of gas in order to keep the engine running – or more accurately skipping, jumping, and tumbling – as I fell over myself searching for the supplies I needed: a hose, a gas can, and a screw driver.
The gas can was easy to find. It seemed to be the only thing that didn’t have most of the paint worn off of it. The hose was also a fairly quick discovery, not so much because it stood out from the rusty background, but because there were so many options. I had to abandon the screwdriver to the dusty corners of the barn. I kneeled down at the side of the Chrysler and clawed at the little door which would expose the gas tank. I couldn’t get my fingers in the gap between the side panels of the car. On the verge of panic, I stood up and by now I could hear the howling of wild dogs in the distance, even over the piercing rumble of the tractor engine. I looked in the window of the Chrysler. It was open. I scrambled over the musky smelling interior. The lever was by the brake pedal. I pulled it. Nothing. I pushed it. Pop. The gas tank was open.
Kneeling down, I put my mouth around the hose and the gas can at my side. Heathcliff would never suffer such indignities. I only knew about siphoning gas from TV. As I stuck the hose into the car the fumes that came through the hose were overpowering. My body ripped itself away from the hose and buckled over. Don’t puke. Don’t puke. Don’t puke. I closed my eyes and inhaled and felt some of the gas on my lips. As I collapsed to the floor I made sure that the gas was flowing into the can as the vomit flowed out of me.
The gas can started to overflow slightly as I regained composure. I crossed the barn, which now smelled less like moth balls and more like vomit and gasoline, over to the tractor. After some searching I found the tank and emptied the gas can into it. The fuel gauge sprung to life and I dropped the gas can and rushed to the barn doors. As I pushed them open one at a time, I wished that my first visit to a farm had been under different circumstances. After opening the doors, I leaped onto the tractor and started toward my companions. The howling of the wild dogs grew louder and louder and all I could think was that Emily Bronte had no idea.
The wind whined and whistled through the cracks between the planks which made up the upper two thirds of the barn which was anchored in place by a sturdy stone foundation. The light reflected off of the innumerable metallic surfaces and danced in the air, dazzling my eyes as I scanned the disorganized contents of the barn. In other circumstances I might have enjoyed the play of light and color, but for the time being I had to focus hard on the task at hand: getting us out of here with our supplies.
There were two vehicles among the heaps of farm equipment. The first was a Chrysler New Yorker. I couldn’t determine the exact year, but from the design I supposed it was from the 1980s or ‘90s. I suppose it may have well been from the Middle Ages but maybe the attachment to a time before the Big Mess has helped me in the past. At any rate, the Chrysler was that light brown color that only cars or coffee with too much cream can be. Three of the hubcaps were missing which exposed the rusty bolts binding the wheels to the rest of the car. It still looked like it was in better condition than the tractor next to it. The tractor’s wheels came up over the roof of the car and the areas immediately surrounding the wheels were missing a lot of paint. I suppose if Wuthering Heights ever entered the 20th century this would be Heathcliff’s vehicle of choice. I paused to think about how many generations of Heathcliffs if would take to bridge the gap between me and Emily Bronte. The keys were still in the tractor. The engine engaged me with the kind of deep rumble that one might expect from someone who has been sleeping for a long time. I examined the controls and tried to figure out how I might get it out of here and back towards my companions. The fuel gauge was hovering over the little red E. I decided to risk running out of gas in order to keep the engine running – or more accurately skipping, jumping, and tumbling – as I fell over myself searching for the supplies I needed: a hose, a gas can, and a screw driver.
The gas can was easy to find. It seemed to be the only thing that didn’t have most of the paint worn off of it. The hose was also a fairly quick discovery, not so much because it stood out from the rusty background, but because there were so many options. I had to abandon the screwdriver to the dusty corners of the barn. I kneeled down at the side of the Chrysler and clawed at the little door which would expose the gas tank. I couldn’t get my fingers in the gap between the side panels of the car. On the verge of panic, I stood up and by now I could hear the howling of wild dogs in the distance, even over the piercing rumble of the tractor engine. I looked in the window of the Chrysler. It was open. I scrambled over the musky smelling interior. The lever was by the brake pedal. I pulled it. Nothing. I pushed it. Pop. The gas tank was open.
Kneeling down, I put my mouth around the hose and the gas can at my side. Heathcliff would never suffer such indignities. I only knew about siphoning gas from TV. As I stuck the hose into the car the fumes that came through the hose were overpowering. My body ripped itself away from the hose and buckled over. Don’t puke. Don’t puke. Don’t puke. I closed my eyes and inhaled and felt some of the gas on my lips. As I collapsed to the floor I made sure that the gas was flowing into the can as the vomit flowed out of me.
The gas can started to overflow slightly as I regained composure. I crossed the barn, which now smelled less like moth balls and more like vomit and gasoline, over to the tractor. After some searching I found the tank and emptied the gas can into it. The fuel gauge sprung to life and I dropped the gas can and rushed to the barn doors. As I pushed them open one at a time, I wished that my first visit to a farm had been under different circumstances. After opening the doors, I leaped onto the tractor and started toward my companions. The howling of the wild dogs grew louder and louder and all I could think was that Emily Bronte had no idea.